Bushman
by SilentBone
Summary: One boy hates his life. Is running away a good idea. Seems like it, until he's kidnapped


Disclaimer- I own this story

Disclaimer- I own this story

Bushman

If I had a happy life, I wouldn't be here right now. If I had any common sense, I wouldn't be here right now. If I had any idea how big the mess was that I was becoming part of, I wouldn't be here right now. But I am here. No way to change it. And anyway, I don't want to go back. Not there. Not to the place I was forced to call home. Nope, Xan Nightwish was never coming home.

Chapter 1. Ideas in My Head

I could feel my chest slowly rise and fall. I was on my back, on the floor. I could hear movement downstairs. That meant someone was still awake. That meant I still had to wait. I still had to wait until they all fell asleep. Then I could go. I would be free, like the way I was meant to be.

I heard whoever it was who was still awake shuffle upstairs and into bed. I had this all planned out. I had to wait for them to fall asleep. I waited patiently. I was in no hurry. They wouldn't come looking for me, would they? Now, it was time. I carefully slid my backpack on, took one last look at the room I hated. I took one last look at the room that was once my refuge, but now my enemy, and took off. I snuck downstairs, and out the door. I vanished into the night, once and for all.

I had thought of everything. I was a genius. On the other hand, I was a lot more intelligent than they perceived me to be. I knew how to do things the right way. No one could ever stop me. No, I was born to be free, and to be free I shall return.

My feet padded soundlessly on the pavement. I was blind in the darkness, but I knew where I was going. I knew this all to well. So many times that I tried it before, but I had engineered this plan differently. This time, it was going to work.

I wasn't always like this. Even though I was white, I lived in a slum outside of Cape Town, South Africa. My step-dad was black. He brought us here. He hated me, and in return, I hated him back. My life was not one to be envied of. I hated my life. My real father disappeared into the Kalahari Desert when I was 6. I never got the chance to really get to know him. Then my mom met Stan. My "new dad". I never would or will call that man my "father." He, in no way, shape, or form, was ever like a father to me. He hit me, he smacked me, and he tried to kill me. It's worse to be hated by someone and to not know why, because then you don't know what to change to make then like you. It's also bad to be hated by someone who thinks they know who you are. There is a difference between knowing someone's face and knowing whom they are inside. No one knows whom I am inside. In addition, I like it that way. It's dangerous to put your secrets into someone else's hands. You don't know where they've been, you don't know what they live, and you don't know where they'll go. That's my philosophy.

I turned around a street corner. I didn't recognize this one. This was bad. I was lost in a slum of South Africa at 2 in the morning. Just the time when the bad people come out. Not good. I tried to backtrack my steps. I had gone to fast. And I really hadn't thought of everything. I thought of everything on getting out of the house, but nothing once I had gotten there. To tell you the truth, I really didn't know what I was doing. I had thought I was going to be caught by the man who calls himself my father. I had no idea I was going to actually get out. I had no idea where I was. This wasn't what I wanted.

In truth, I was just another confused teenager. Just like everyone else out there. I was angry and full of odd ideas. I hated my home life, and the only reason I saw to escape it was to run away.

As I began to look around for a street sign, I began to notice the people around me. They were drunk. No doubt about it. The man who calls himself my father often gets drunk. I know what drunk people look like. That triggered another thought into my head. "What if the cops come? What if they find me?" Oh, God, I was in trouble.

I never really thought what drunk people might be capable of, so I hid in a dark alley, just so I wouldn't find out.

Big mistake. Fatal mistake. If I could change anything in my life, it would be that. You see, I wasn't _alone _in that alley. There were two other men, both black, who were there. They saw me, but I didn't see or hear them, until they grabbed the back of my wrists and picked me up.

I yelped in surprise.

"Mbwa, look what I got!" one said. I knew the word _mbwa_ from somewhere. It was the Swahili world for dog. (no kidding, I do speak Swahili) That meant these people were not from around here. People don't speak Swahili in South Africa.

"What is it?"

"Mtumishi."

They knew I was a boy. Okay, I didn't look much like a girl.

"Shall we take him, Moto?"

"Why not."

I was being teen-napped by a person called "dog" and a person called "fire".(moto) Awesome. The last thing I saw was a large pole being thrown at my head. Then everything went black.


End file.
